


Perfect

by paint_me_a_revolution



Series: Tales From the Haunted House [5]
Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho Stage, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Fluff, Just boys and girl in love, Maxime is a springtime grinch, Nothing to see here, Other, Polyamory, Romance, Somebody save Ronan, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 05:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: A soft, sweet snapshot of Camille's relationship with his partners. It's honestly nothing but fluff.





	Perfect

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” Ronan asked one morning, gesturing broadly to the city streets outside the windows of the _Maison._

“Paris?” Camille asked, wrinkling his nose and declining to mention the dog shit he’d stepped in yesterday after work.

“Double glazed windows?” Ok, Olympe was definitely having Ronan on, but Camille snorted into his coffee anyway.

“No, no, it’s definitely dutiful employees,” Lazare guessed, crows feet deepening as he grinned. Ronan wrinkled his nose.

“Fucking spring!” he shouted. “Guys! It’s _spring!”_

“It’s been spring for, like, two weeks,” Maxime grumbled, dragging a hand through his messy fringe. “Get over it.”

A little light went out of Ronan’s face. “But…” he started, “the flowers are blooming. The grass is growing. The trees are _flourishing.”_

Maxime brandished a box of antihistamines like he was trying to ward off the devil. “I wish they wouldn’t.”

Everyone—even Maxime himself, after a fair bit of prodding—laughed at that. “Okay,” Ronan said, “fine. But it’s _pretty.”_

Lazare let out a long, slow sigh that sounded like it took all the air from his lungs. “You’re supposed to be working,” he reminded everyone. “We’ve still got a show tonight.”

Solène rolled her eyes. “Why are we even open?” she asked. “No one wants to go to a haunted house in fucking April.”

Lucile waved the guest list in her face. “Apparently they do,” she pointed out. “There’s even a waiting list.”

Solène crossed her arms. Lucile’s red lips twisted in a pretty approximation of a sneer. “So what?” the younger Mazurier whined. She, like her brother, seemed to be enjoying the warmer weather, as she cast a long and wistful glance out the window. She was wearing a red top that stopped just above her belly button, which was decorated with a pretty red jewel that caught the light every time she moved. Out of the corner of his eye, Camille saw Olympe wet her lips as she stared at it. Solène didn’t seem to mind.

Maxime shut the only open window with a bang, startling everyone out of their thoughts. “Come on, idiots,” he snapped. “We’ve a show to put on.”

Camille grabbed his elbow as Maxime passed. “Come here a second,” he murmured. “You too, Lucile.”

She complied without a fuss, wrapping one arm around each of their waists. “You know,” she said, blinking up at Camille through her lashes in such a way that it turned his insides to goo, “it really is a shame to be cooped up inside on a day like this.”

Maxime snorted. “I _like _inside,” he muttered. “All this fucking tree sex makes my eyes water.”

Lucile pressed a kiss to Maxime’s temple. “You’re such a Grinch,” she teased.

“The Grinch hates Christmas,” Maxime argued. “I don’t.”

With a grin, Camille said, “Actually, you kind of do.” He shared a glance with Lucile, hoping she shared his memory of the time Maxime had destroyed their Christmas tree in a fit of rage. From her smile, it was likely.

“I don’t hate _Christmas.” _Maxime crossed his arms indignantly. “I hate the capitalist bullshit that comes with it.” He closed his eyes as Lucile offered him another kiss, this time on the corner of his mouth. “Anyway,” he mumbled, flushing. “I have to go get ready. See you guys later.”

Camille didn’t mind working with Danton. By the end of the night, however, his patience was wearing thin. “Can you take a round?” he asked, clearing his throat; it was starting to hurt from the constant shouting. Danton shrugged, picking at the threadbare sleeve of his green jacket.

“Not really my thing,” he said, referring to the role Camille had filled in all night. “I don’t do loud screaming.”

“That’s—“ Camille turned around abruptly, flashing a wild smile at the new crowd as they entered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Danton lay back, clearly playing possum. _Fuck, _Camille thought bitterly, and reached out to lightly pull on a passing woman’s hair. She screamed. Danton jumped a little, which Camille found cathartic, and then relaxed again. The group was gone within ten minutes, and the little light over the door flashed, signalling that it was the last one.

“Come on,” Danton said, yawning. “Let’s get changed. I’m fucking beat.”

“Sure you are,” Camille muttered, but he didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, he brushed past Danton to the dressing room, where Solène and Olympe were already peeling off their high heels and corsets and letting their hair down.

“Long night?” Solène asked sympathetically as Camille took his seat next to her. She offered him a cotton pad soaked in makeup remover, which he took with a grateful smile.

“Why do so many people want to go to a haunted house in _spring?” _Camille complained good-naturedly. “They should be _outside.”_

“We should be outside,” Olympe groaned, shaking her head like a dog to force her hair back into its natural state. She shoved her high heels under her vanity and pulled on a pair of worn Chucks. Solène leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek, which made Olympe hum happily.

Maxime was the last in, mascara smudged in raccoon circles around his eyes. “_Fuck,” _he groaned, rubbing at a smear of fake blood on his forehead. “Someone shoot me.”

Camille wrapped his arms around Maxime’s waist and pulled the smaller man into his lap. “Not gonna happen,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Maxime’s neck. Maxime twisted around for a proper kiss, grinning. “Too messy.”

Camille felt Maxime’s lips twitch against his. “You sure it’s not because you like me too much?” he asked. Camille hummed.

“Maybe.” 

“I’m getting out of this costume.” Maxime stood up, hopping on one leg like a bird as he struggled to unzip his left boot. “I’ll meet you at the front desk if you’re not ready when I am.”

“I got here first,” Camille pointed out, but Max was already pulling his shirt off and rubbing the fake blood from his cheeks.

They left together, hand in hand. Lucile joined them at the desk, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She wasn’t wearing lipstick anymore, Camille noticed. Or, more likely, it had all just rubbed off over the course of the night. She welcomed both men with kisses. “How was work?” she asked.

“The usual,” Maxime said through a yawn. He seemed to remember something, and laughed a little. “You?”

“Fine,” Lucile said. “I had to deal with a couple of splinters. I need to ask Lazare about putting in new bannisters, or treating the old ones. Can you treat a bannister?”

“I think so,” Maxime said around a little cough. “Come on, let’s go. If I have to spend any more time outside I think I’ll scratch my eyes out.”

“We’re not even outside, you Grinch,” Camille pointed out. Maxime scowled.

“I’m not a fucking Grinch,” he complained, but he smiled as Lucile took one of his hands and Camille took the other. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

They ended up in a tangle on the couch, Lucile’s legs draped over Maxime’s lap and Maxime’s head on Camille’s shoulder, watching the _worst _romcom Camille had ever had the displeasure of sitting through in his life. Maxime, lulled by the warmth and comfort of two bodies pressed to his, had nodded off nearly an hour ago, the angry lines of his face smoothed by sleep. Camille smiled. This, he thought, was perfect. 


End file.
